Dear Steph, Get bent. Love, MK

I read romance novels when I'm upset. Dramatic historical novels with crinolines and horses and dukes and more plot twists than an episode of Desperate Housewives. 

Before I was packed up and sent home to California with "crazy" practically stamped on my forehead, I was speed reading through the Regency era. Don't misunderstand; I have little respect for the romance novel genre. The books are silly and formulaic at best. They're anything but original, and sort of insult the intelligence of the women to whom they're marketed. I don't read them for the literary value... I kind of loathe them, really.

Its just that nothing brings out the crocodile tears in me faster than some lucky bitch in a corset getting her happily-ever-after.

I hate crying.

Totally fucked, right? 

I don't really have an explanation for it. Maybe it's because I don't believe in happily ever after. Or because I was scolded for crying as a child, teen, adult. Maybe I'm just plain twisted... or maybe I just need to get a fucking life. I have no idea.

Anyway, here I am reading some crap about an orphaned vicar's daughter and her horse groom lover who is secretly an earl, and bawling my damned eyes out. I'll be up all night crying for the mistreated girl who has no idea that the servant she's going to run away (from her evil uncle) with is going to make her a pregnant millionaire any minute. I don't even know if I feel sorry for her because of the evil uncle or jealous of the handsome man. 

I've always been afraid of becoming the kind of woman who has a drink and a couple of pills in the evening to deal with the burden of living: her white girl, first world problems. It seems that as long as Stephanie Laurens her ilk are around, I don't have much to worry about in that arena.

We Built This City on Rock 'n Roll

 SkinnyBitch has found a job at another company, and is in the East Bay for a month-long new employee training program. I went to visit her over the weekend, and we went into TheCity on Saturday. I love love LOVE TheCity! We watched football in a sports bar (Go Steelers!), went drunk souvenir shopping (note the ridiculous sunglasses below), ate at the Cheesecake Factory on the roof of Macy's and so much more. All in all, it was a pretty fantastic weekend.

Uglies

Years ago, my brother went to Yosemite with his then-girlfriend and her family for Thanksgiving. It was one of her family's traditions; my parents, not being the family-traditions kind of people, had no qualms about sending their only son away for the holiday. 

That year, for Christmas, he gave me what is, to this day, the ugliest gift I've ever received. Ever. He gave me socks. It wasn't the socks themselves that were offensive. I like socks as much as the next person. These socks were heinous: thick and brown with black bears, green pine trees and (just in case I was confused) the word BEAR printed across the instep. I cannot impress upon you how ugly these socks were. I promptly put them on (over the bottoms of my velour sweatpants), and we all laughed as I opened  the less functional gift that accompanied them.

At the time I was living in the unfamiliar South where it snowed and my California-flip-flop-feet were always cold. The ugly socks quickly became my favorites. After that, the ugly socks became a joke between my brother and I. He made a few more trips to Yosemite with then-girlfriend and her family. Each time, he returned bearing a new pair of socks for me, the thickest and ugliest he could find. I always accepted them gladly and exclaimed over their ugliness (as if ugly was a virtue) and immediately put them on, weather appropriate or not. 

No matter how hard he looked, he could never out-ugly the original pair of ugly socks.

I still have all of the ugly socks. Its a small miracle that the collection has survived so many moves fully intact, but they're stubborn. They're still well loved, but rarely see much action outside of my sock drawer. They're far too heavy for everyday wear, which is probably why they've survived this long. 

Today, its pouring outside, so I rooted around in my sock drawer until I found the brown uglies and pulled them onto my feet. There is a hole in the toe of one of them. 

I wore them anyway. Part of me wanted to keep them in the drawer always, so I'll always have them, this small tangible link to my brother, but instead I decided that I'm going to wear them until they've got no more life left in them. 

Its a big-picture thing. 

My brother's memory isn't something that I should hide in a drawer. 

27

I've had a rough couple of weeks. I'm still having issues at work. My friends have been, well, they're stressing me out. 

And the 27th has been drawing closer and closer, casting an ugly black shadow over everything.

Saturday was the year-anniversary of my brother's death.

I spent the day doing my bridesmaid-duty and wedding dress shopping with Bridezilla and Hope. I wasn't going to go; Mommo and I should've been in Oregon with TheFish. I'd been looking forward to Oregon. I haven't seen TheFish since she left for school in September. I NEEDED a break from work. Unfortunately, the snow storms in the mountains prevented us from travelling, so I'd spent my hard-won week off on the couch at home and avoiding my grief, my friends, my work, etc. So when Saturday came around, I had been wallowing for days and I thought that maybe the shopping would provide a positive distraction.

I made it through the shopping. Barely. I helped Bridezilla choose a beautiful dress. I smiled. I laughed. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to go home. I drove home through the rain and made it back to the sofa before I cried. I was emotionally exhausted, drained, headachey. 

But I'm proud of myself. And I did something sort of frivolous to distract myself. The girl I was a few years ago would've skipped dress shopping. She would've bought a bottle of alcohol and gone to a guy friend's to drink herself silly and sex it out. I'm not going to lie, I thought about it. So-and-So's is on the way home from the dress boutique. I could've easily picked up a bottle of Crown and seduced him to make myself feel better. But I didn't. I went home and I cried. 

I guess this is what growing up looks like. Fuck. When did that happen?

Do Not Pass Go

My car is leaking antifreeze. 

I learned this sad fact on Wednesday when Puddin approached my desk about ten minutes after he should've left for the day. He had his serious face on and he informed me that there was a puddle of antifreeze the size of Delaware under my car. 

I guess that I knew that my car had antifreeze. And I know that antifreeze shouldn't be ingested. I live in a place where nothing freezes EVER, so I always sort of thought that maybe antifreeze was... unnecessary. You know, like those things people in Alaska have in their garages to make their cars work in the snow. I could tell from his tone that it was actually fairly serious, so I did what any person with no practical automobile knowledge would do.

I looked at him very blankly and said, "I have no idea what that means." 

So he explained to me (without being condescending) that it is never good when something is leaking from a car, and that mine was in danger of overheating. He said that I must buy antifreeze at the gas station and drive directly to his house without any detours, and wait for him to get home from class to help me. Then he texted me to remind me to watch the temperature gauge and call if my car overheated. Twice. 

In my head this translated to something along like "Your car is a DEATH TRAP that leaks TOXIC CHEMICALS and is about to SELF DESTRUCT". 

I found myself purchasing antifreeze (pre-diluted) from a man with one front tooth, and white-knuckling it fifteen minutes down the highway to Puddin's. I don't think that I took my eyes off of the temperature gauge the whole way down PCH. I was convinced that my car was going to blow up ANY MINUTE. When I arrived, I had a cramp in my wrist and my hair had frizzed out. Awful.

I went to the movies with Skinny and Manonna while I waited for him to get out of class. (Life As We Know It, cute but predictable.)

When he got home, Puddin pointed out the things under the hood by the light of the LED light on my Droid. I learned to identify the radiator and the fan belt and lots of other things that I previously considered "the stuff around where the oil goes". This my friends, is progress. 

Next week Puddin and Pumpkin are going to try to fix the leak. They have used various pieces of man-knowledge to determine that it is totally something that they can probably fix. Probably a hose. I'm cooking dinner in exchange for their somewhat dubious mechanical skills. I'm hoping that they can fix it. Otherwise it will be just like the time that I went over to help them paint. Except reversed... The next day I had a hangover. And I was scrubbing Gobi Desert paint from under my fingernails and between my toes for like two days (that stuff does NOT come out!).

The walls look great though. 

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Clouds In My Coffee

A stupid thing happened to me today.

I was watching Say Yes To The Dress. Its a recent obsession of mine. I'm not the mushy, frilly emotional type. This show is completely out of character for me, but I can't get enough. Its my secret shame.

So... Say Yes To The Dress. There I am: glasses, pajamas, lopsided ponytail, coffee mug watching this blond girl trying on ridiculously over priced wedding gowns. And then she starts crying and out comes a torrent of words. She'd lost her sister very suddenly earlier in the year, and she was feeling her absence intensely. 

I lost it. 

I just sat there sobbing into my coffee cup as this stranger sobbed into a mountain of tulle on the television.

I'd always thought that my brother would walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. Now when that day comes I'll walk alone. I couldn't possibly ask anyone else.

But that day is far off...

The first anniversary of my brother's death is right around the corner.

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Something Blue

When I was seventeen, I was a bridesmaid in my favorite cousin's wedding. She had a barefoot-hippie wedding on the beach of Lake Tahoe, complete with vegan cake and a blue wedding dress. My very Catholic Nana and my Born Again aunt both nearly birthed a cow when they found out about the blue dress. My cousin said that the blue was non-negotiable: she'd lived with her fiancé for years, and they weren't fooling anyone.  I wore a blue sun dress and walked down the (sand) aisle on the arm of a guy with a tattoo on his neck. (My dad nearly birthed a cow when he got a look at the tattoo) 

It is clear to me now how out of place I was there. I practically pranced next to Neck Tattoo. I had carefully tweezed and blown out my hair. I was so young and shiny and girl-next-door. But I was elated. Being a bridesmaid was the most important thing I'd ever been allowed to do. I thought that all of my cousin'f friends with their liberal beliefs and ultra healthy food were so interesting and sophisticated. 

I have no idea why my cousin asked me to be in her wedding, perhaps it was that I am the first female cousin (and thus, closest to her in age). Or perhaps its because of the hero worship that I'd always had (OK, still kind of have) for her. Or perhaps purposely losing touch with every single person you've known longer than a few years is a family trait... Whatever her reasons, it was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me. 

Now, seven years later, my close friends are getting married. 

I have been asked to be a bridesmaid.

I am less than elated this time around.

Perhaps its because the other bridesmaids are awful stuck-up bitches (save one) and not my cousin's friend with the angel wings tattooed on her shoulder-blades. Perhaps its because I smell a Bridezilla situation brewing already. Perhaps its because she informed me that her wedding colors are royal blue and orange. Or perhaps its because I've always been better friends with the male half of this particular couple than the female half.

Between now and June (of course, a June wedding. Original, no?) I will have to listen to the overwhelming flow of wedding minutia. Flowers, dresses, venues, guest lists, caterers. Drama, weight pressures (You must come dress shopping, love. You have the biggest... breasts). I'm not looking forward to any of it.

I know that I should be flattered, and I know that I had a choice. I suppose that I could have said no. I am flattered, or at least surprised to have been asked. Even though I don't want to be involved, I wouldn't dream of hurting the bride's feelings by saying no. Is there a tactful way to say "I know we've been friends for years, but I don't want to support you in front of everyone on your wedding day"? I didn't think so. Besides, even though I think that Bridezilla is a little ridiculous (and pretty damn tacky) I do really like her. So I'm going to suck it up and wear an ugly dress and smile.

I swear that if I catch the bouquet, I will choke a bitch. 

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